


Regarding Park Benches and Demon Bites

by SunandShadowBoth



Category: The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Klance-centric, M/M, Shadowhunter Allura, Shadowhunter Keith, Shadowhunter Shiro, Swearing, Warlock Lance (Voltron), Werewolf Hunk (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunandShadowBoth/pseuds/SunandShadowBoth
Summary: Lance forces his eyes open, all the way this time. It takes them a second to adjust, and when they do, his stomach plummets to the center of the earth. The man is in a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms to reveal the runes inked across his pale skin. There’s a sword strapped across his back, a big one.“You’re a Shadowhunter,” Lance blurts. Lance’s mother had warned him about getting mixed up with these bloodthirsty maniacs, and here he is, half conscious next to the very people he’d worked so hard to avoid the last two years. He’s fucked. Royally screwed. He isn’t sure what kind of punishment is handed out to warlocks for public intoxication but his mind races through options like indefinite imprisonment, dismemberment, death?*No prior knowledge of the Shadowhunters Chronicles needed!
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 238





	Regarding Park Benches and Demon Bites

Something taps him on the shoulder and he groans. He can feel that it’s morning, can feel that there’s sunlight bitch slapping him across the face but he doesn’t care because his head is pounding, his back is stiff and his mouth feels like the damn Sahara. He wants to pull his covers up over his head, but when he reaches for them, they’re gone. Has his roommate taken them? Again? 

“Hunk,” he groans, “Gimme.”

“Give you what?” a masculine voice asks, one that is entirely unfamiliar and filled with just a bit too much humor. 

Fear spikes through him and he jolts upright, wincing as his stomach rolls. His head throbs, and he reaches up with one hand to clutch at it, afraid his brains might be melting through his ears. A squint is manageable, but just barely, and he makes out the blurry form of someone crouched on the side of his bed. 

No, not his bed. A bench. In the middle of… a park? 

He groans again, wordlessly this time, falling back gracelessly onto the unforgiving planks. Children’s laughter trickles toward him from somewhere far away and he wishes, then, that he could just fade into the void. It’s much quieter there. 

How’d he get here? Where  _ is  _ here? He remembers going out for a few drinks with Hunk, remembers deciding to walk home from the bar with a girl, a human, instead of taking the Uber with his roommate and then… nothing. He had been exceptionally wasted and the woman had been exceptionally pretty, but one plus one still didn’t add to park bench. 

“Where am I?” he grunts. He hopes this man is not a threat, because he can barely open his eyes, let alone defend himself, “Who’re you?”

“You’re in Central Park,” the guy says, “I got a call about a mess and I’m here to clean it up.”

That takes him a second. Is… Is  _ Lance  _ the mess? And if he is, who would be sent to make sure he made it home? Hunk wouldn’t call the police, but someone else might. So either this guy is an officer, or he’s… 

Lance forces his eyes open, all the way this time. It takes them a second to adjust, and when they do, his stomach plummets to the center of the earth. The man is in a black shirt, the sleeves rolled up on his forearms to reveal the runes inked across his pale skin. There’s a sword strapped across his back, a big one. 

“You’re a Shadowhunter,” Lance blurts. Lance’s mother had warned him about getting mixed up with these bloodthirsty maniacs, and here he is, half conscious next to the very people he’d worked so hard to avoid the last two years. He’s fucked. Royally screwed. He isn’t sure what kind of punishment is handed out to warlocks for public intoxication but his mind races through options like indefinite imprisonment, dismemberment,  _ death.  _

“Obviously,” the Shadowhunter answers smoothly. Lance thinks he might throw up. The guy is crouched next to him, elbows on his knees. His eyes are sharp, darting across Lance’s face and then down to his feet, back up to his hands, and then his face again, “How far are you from home?”

Oh god. He can’t bring him back to Hunk. Hunk has just gotten settled here, just found his pack and Lance can’t fuck that up. He blinks, thinking fast, “I don’t have a home.”

The Shadowhunter’s dark brows furrow. Lance takes in the black hair tied back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, the deep blue eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw. He’s dressed in nearly all black, except for the bit of red string around his wrist: black boots, black pants, black shirt, with something that might be armor strapped across his torso. There’s knives too, sheathed at his hips and Lance gulps.

The man’s lips part like he’s about to say something but then there’s a muffled crash from somewhere beyond the treeline and someone screams, distantly. Birds from the fountain Lance hadn’t noticed suddenly erupt, flinging themselves desperately into the air with a cacophony of sound that reverberates painfully in his skull. He swears under his breath, but the guy isn’t paying attention to him anymore. The Shadowhunter’s glancing toward the sparse oaks pretending to be a forest in the middle of a concrete jungle, his eyes narrowed. 

Even as Lance watches, the shadows begin to grow longer, stretching across the spanse of sun soaked green that lies between the two of them and the rest of the park. It takes him a moment to realize that no, those aren’t shadows, they’re something else, creatures scuttling across the grass too quickly for him to count. 

“Can I just say,” Lance interjects, breathlessly, “I don’t think I was the mess someone called about.”

“Obviously,” the Shadowhunter says again, this time with less humor and more annoyance behind it, “Stay here.”

“What?” Lance asks, scrambling to his feet just as the man straightens to his full height. They’re perilously close, Lance’s face only inches from the Shadowhunter’s but the other man doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Stay. Here.” 

Then he’s racing off, not away from the probable demon horde, as Lance would have, but  _ toward  _ it, “You can’t fight them alone! Don’t you guys normally do this kind of thing with partners?”

He knows a little about Shadowhunters, mainly enough to steer clear of them. Shadowhunters live in Institutes around the cities, and they get paired off with people they call their  _ parabatai.  _ They always work together, and like his ma had said,  _ “Where you see one Shadowhunter, another will not be far behind.” _

But this guy is alone. Or at least he seems to be.

The Shadowhunter doesn’t answer. He draws the sword from his back, a massive red and black blade that has Lance taking a few steps back. The man looks absolutely menacing as he advances, weapon clutched in both hands, a glint of malice in his dark eyes. The monsters aren’t far now, and Lance wonders if they’ve torn their way through the whole south end of the park already. He hopes not. He’s pretty far up into the north end and he can’t imagine what the body count would look like. 

The first of the demons launches itself into the air and the Shadowhunter’s blade flashes. It slices the creature clean in half and it screams. Black blood spurts, exploding from the beetle-like creature the size of Lance’s torso. The smell hits him then, a strong stench of rotting food and he can’t help himself. He leans over the side of the bench and heaves. It burns like the tequila had on its way down last night and he has regrets, so many regrets.

When he finally makes it back into a semi-upright position, one hand clutching his stomach, he realizes the Shadowhunter is fully preoccupied with the creatures. He spins and whirls in the middle of the field, fending off the quick little creatures with fast, efficient strokes. Lance should escape now, should run while he has the chance. These are Drevak demons, stupid and small. Any Shadowhunter able to follow up on help calls on their own should be able to handle a pack of them on their own, even if they are poisonous. 

Lance consoles himself with that thought and is just about to book it toward the crowded city sidewalk he can just barely glimpse through the wall of high shrubs when something bursts from those very leaves, teeth bared. 

He catches a glint of a hard carapace and sharp needle-like teeth before it’s on him. He’s knocked backward, thankfully onto the grass instead of the concrete path, it’s sharp legs digging into his thigh and he yells, thrusting his hands outward. A concussion of air slams against the demon and it flails, slamming against the bench with a loud  _ crack _ . Lance pushes himself back to his feet, gingerly avoiding putting pressure on his left leg, the skin above his knee punctured and bleeding freely. His good jeans are utterly ruined, ripped and dirty and while he wants to mourn their loss, now isn’t the time. 

The demon struggles for a moment, righting itself with some effort. Lance can see clearly now it’s a Shax demon, and his blood runs cold. Luckily, a wound from one of it’s legs won’t kill him, but a bite could end his attempts at independence right here and now. He’d told his mother he’d be fine on his own, that he could make it in a big city run by Shadowhunters, even if he was a Warlock, but maybe he can’t. Maybe he’d been too naive, too stupid. 

“Down!” a voice rings out behind him and without knowing precisely why, he ducks, falling back to the ground with little grace. A knife appears in the chest of the Shax demon and it bellows, a horrifying roar that Lance hopes he never has to hear again. 

Seconds later, there are hands hauling him back into a standing position and he cries out as he’s forced to move his knee but with the pain comes a bit of clarity. The Shadowhunter is standing behind him, at his back, which means-

A Drevak demon throws itself toward Lance’s unprotected left side and he yelps in alarm but the Shadowhunter throws himself into the line of fire, kicking the demon backward. He follows the creature down, letting his foot squish into its side for only a second before he stabs that dark blade into its skull. It squeals, then goes limp and the Shadowhunter is moving on to the next one. His hair is coming loose, strands of black sticking to the sweat on his forehead and temples. He’s covered with gore, black blood soaking the front of his shirt, the side of his neck. 

“You’re a warlock, aren’t you?” the man pants, his chest heaving. 

Lance nods mutely. 

“Well,” the Shadowhunter shouts, “Do some warlock shit then!”

“I can’t just-!” Lance sputters, but the man isn’t paying attention to him anymore because the Shax demon has recovered, and there’s another one of those insect demons practically on top of them both and Lance throws up a shield, glowing with bright blue energy. The Drevax bounces off of it, rolling halfway down the grassy hill. 

Huh. Maybe he  _ can  _ just. 

“Nice!” the Shadowhunter grunts and Lance feels warm. Not in the ‘it’s nearly midday in the middle of summer’ kind of warm or the ‘I’ve barely run a mile in the last year and my muscles can’t take this kind of exercise’ kind of way either. He doesn’t know what kind of way it is, but he likes it. 

The Shax demon scuttles up the Shadowhunter’s side, but Lance just has to trust he can take care of it because he’s busy kicking Drevax off his shoes. He pushes them back just enough that he feels safe summoning a bit of flame, letting it spiral through the demon’s ranks. The noise that pours from them makes Lance want to clap his hands over his ears, but he doesn’t, instead moving aside as the Shadowhunter spins past him, thrusting one of his glowing knives into the back of the Shax demon that had materialized to his right.  _ A Seraph blade,  _ Lance realizes. One of the primary weapons a Shadowhunter uses, infused with angelic essence or something like that. Lance isn’t sure, exactly. 

The Shax demon goes down with a gurgle. The wound from the knife begins to sizzle and bubble, spreading outward until the creature’s skin looks like it’s boiling. It melts, fading into a puddle of goo that turns the grass an inky black as it is absorbed into the dirt. 

Where there had once been a hoard of Drevax, there are now only small piles of ash, and even those disappear before Lance’s eyes on a stiff breeze. 

Lance sits, abruptly. He’s not sure if his leg gives out or if he’s just exhausted, but he doesn’t really feel like standing so he just… doesn’t. The Shadowhunter does the same, though a bit more fluidly, one hand rising to wipe a bit of the blood off from his face. All of it’s black, unsurprisingly. Shadowhunters are legendary in their fighting skill, though this is the first time Lance has ever seen one in action. 

“I’m Keith,” the Shadowhunter says. He sounds normal, like he’s caught his breath  _ already  _ and for some reason that makes Lance kind of want to slap him. 

“Lance.”Now that he’s still, now that it’s over, his hangover comes back in full force, made so much worse by the ache in his leg. He isn’t sure if he can make it home. Does he even want to go home? Where had those demons come from? “What just happened?”

“I saved your life,” Keith informs him.

“Uh, excuse me,” Lance protests, “I saved yours too! I kept that Shax demon busy while you fought those little things, mmkay?”

He might throw up again. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to argue about this. He realizes that there’s a bit of that black blood on his shirt too, the t-shirt his sister had bought him for his birthday last year. For some reason, it makes him light headed, makes his chest feel heavy. He’s definitely going to throw up. 

“Are you okay?” the Shadowhunter asks, and he  _ actually  _ sounds concerned. Which blows Lance’s mind, because this isn’t how Shadowhunters are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be mean and ruthless and want to kill Lance simply based on the fact that one of his parents had been a demon. He hadn’t chosen to be a warlock. He just is. 

“Do you care?” Lance hears himself ask and the dark-haired man blinks in surprise. 

“Guess not.”

Immediately, he feels bad, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

Keith speaks at the same time, “So do you really not have a home or-”

They both stop speaking, staring at each other until Keith gestures for him to go. Lance absently notices one of the runes on his arm has faded. It was one that just minutes ago had resembled a new tattoo or freshly poured ink; now it looks more like a scar, white against the already pale color of the man’s skin. 

He wants to ask about it, but he wants his bed more, “I have a home.”

“That’s good,” Keith murmurs, “Can I help you to get there?”

“No,” Lance says abruptly. He doesn’t want to put Hunk at risk, “No, I want you to tell me what just happened.”

“I got a call this morning about a disturbance in this park. I came here, did a quick check but everything seemed clear, everything except you. I assumed a Shadowhunter had seen you sleeping here and it offended their uh… delicate sensibilities, so I thought I’d help you get home, or whatever.” Keith doesn’t look at him, instead keeping his gaze trained on the trees where the creatures came from, “I’m thinking my arrival was the signal someone was waiting for. The call must have been from someone summoning demons, demons they released to try to kill me. You just got in the way.”

“Why you?” Lance asks, startled. 

Keith shrugs, “I’m a Shadowhunter. Why else?”

Fair. Considering some of the stories he’s heard, he would guess at least half of the Downworld, the underground communities of Werewolves, Vampires, Warlocks and Fey, want the Shadowhunters dead. 

“I’m going to check on the mundies,” Keith says, pushing to his feet, “And if you don’t want to lose your leg, put some pressure on it.”

Right. Lance had almost forgotten about the other humans in the park, the “mundies” or mundanes, those that knew nothing of the creatures that moved in the shadows. So...Keith’s leaving him. Here. Alone. With the remains of demons and an injured leg. Panic bubbles behind his rib cage, “Wait, what if they come back?”

Keith glances down at him with a frown, his tone irritated, “They won’t.”

And then he’s gone, jogging across the open field to the forest line. Lance straightens out his knee with a groan, trying to ignore the fire racing along his nerve endings. He needs to get this thing cleaned out and bandaged. He needs a hot shower. And maybe a strong drink, though just the thought of alcohol makes him want to gag. 

He struggles to a sort of upright position, though his leg is screaming in protest. He should just stay put, just stay here and not move, ever again, but he pushes himself up onto the bench anyway. It’s nice to have something to lean against. He’s tired. Everything hurts. His leg won’t leave him alone, his head is trying to rip in two and he spits into the grass to get rid of the taste of bile that seems to have found a new home on the back of his tongue. 

He’ll close his eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to rest, get some strength back and then he’ll make his way home, Shadowhunter be damned…

“Lance,” a voice says. It’s still not Hunk’s voice, and Lance finds himself wishing not for the first time he’d gone home with his best friend last night, “Hey. Wake up.”

“Mmm?” Lance mumbles. He doesn’t want to wake up, because if he does, there will be pain. 

“Wake up,” the voice says, more annoyed this time, and Lance comes back to awareness with a grimace. He was right. Being awake feels terrible. 

“What.” Lance snaps, once he recognizes the man in front of him. It’s Keith, back again, still covered in black goo.

“I’m guessing you can’t make it home on your own, otherwise you would have left by now,” Keith answers nonchalantly, “I’m… I can help, if you want.”

Is he blushing? No. Shadowhunter’s don’t blush. They don’t have feelings, not like normal people do. Still, Lance is now 100% positive he won’t make it back to his apartment without collapsing along the way, so he supposes letting Keith get him to the doorstep posed less danger than say… passing out in the street, “Fine.”

Keith’s face brightens, just a little, almost enough to be a trick of the light, something from Lance’s imagination, “Good. Uh. You live far from here? I can call my brother-”

“No,” Lance interjects, fear like icy water dumped over his head, “No, no one else can know.”

“Okay, okay,” Keith raises his hands in defense, “I got it. I guess we could call a car or something.”

“Like Uber?” Lance sighs. He reaches for his phone, in his front pocket where he normally keeps it, but it isn’t there. It’s not in any of his pockets either, “I don’t have my phone on me… you’d have to call them. I could venmo you, I guess, if Shadowhunters do that kind of thing?”

“I don’t… know if my phone can do that?” Keith says, sounding embarrassed. One hand rises to rub at the back of his blood covered neck and Lance winces because  _ ew,  _ “I don’t use it much.”

He pulls something out of a pocket next to his knives, something small and compact and Lance feels his mouth drop open, “Is that a flip phone?”

“It’s… a phone?” Keith says, sounding confused and Lance has the urge to take the stupid thing and throw it against a tree, though that might do more damage to nature than to the phone itself, “Can we call the Uber from this or not?” 

“No,” Lance shakes his head and then regrets it, “I live like a mile from here anyway. We could try to hail a taxi I guess, but I appear to have lost my wallet. You have any mundane money on you?”

“No,” Keith shrugs, “I can carry you a mile.”

“You’re not carrying me,” Lance retorts, “Absolutely not.”

Anyway, fifteen minutes later after Lance had attempted to hobble through the rest of the park to the exit with Keith as a crutch, Keith had scooped him up, complaining about the lack of progress and that had been that. It’s a lot for Lance to take in, but it’s not bad, actually. Keith doesn’t try to kill him, he just… walks. He doesn’t say much, at least not without prompting, but that’s okay because Lance has a lot of questions. 

“Why aren’t people noticing two bloody people walking down the street?” he muses, “Do you guys use some kind of cloaking spell?”

“It’s a rune,” Keith says, not sounding winded in the slightest, “Keeps mundanes from noticing us.”

“That’s cool. Is it this one right here?” Lance asks, pointing to a bit of black ink he can see crawling up Keith’s collarbone. 

“No.”

“What’s that one for?” 

“It’s a strength rune.”

“Ah, so that’s how you can carry me this easily.” It’s not that Keith doesn’t have muscle, he obviously does, but he’s not bodybuilder material in the slightest. 

“Yeah.”

“What happened to that one on your arm?”

No answer. 

“The one that turned white?”

“I used up its power,” Keith grunts, “Am I going the right direction?”

“Turn right at the next crossroad.” Lance says breezily. He’s still bleeding, he can tell, and he’s feeling a little light headed, “What did the one do that burned up?”

“It was for agility,” Keith says and he’s stoically staring straight ahead, not meeting Lance’s smirk. He’s right against Keith’s chest and he can feel the Shadowhunter’s heart beating a rapid staccato. 

“Something the matter?” Lance glances around, afraid, suddenly, that there’s more demons, that the summoner from the park has tracked them here for some reason. 

“Everything’s fine. How’s your leg?” Keith asks. 

“It’s alright.” Which is true. Keith has been careful not to jostle him and it’s made the rest of this trip much less painful than it might have been if he’d walked this whole way. 

“Good.”

They lapse into silence for a long moment and then Lance says, for no logical reason he can fathom, “Do you hate me?”

“What?” Keith says, sounding… astonished, almost, “No. I don’t even know you.”

“Oh. I just thought all Shadowhunters hated Warlocks.” Lance watches Keith’s expression, monitoring it closely for a hint of change because if something resembling anger arises in those beautiful features he’s hopping down from the man’s arms and walking home himself, pain be damned. 

Half of his mind catches on the word  _ beautiful  _ and the other half goes  _ duh  _ because Keith is handsome in the most objective sense and Lance would have had to be an idiot to miss it, Shadowhunter or not. 

“That’s not-” Keith starts, looking strangled. His face is read and he bites his lip before continuing, “Not everyone hates the Downworld, alright? Sure, some Shadowhunters are like that but I’ve spent enough time around Warlocks to know they’re probably better people than half the Clave.”

“The Clave?”

“The governing body of Shadowhunters,” Keith answers absently, “I don’t hate you. I think you’re… weird, but you seem to be a fine enough person.”

“Weird?” Lance squawks, because that is not at all the impression he wants to be making, “I’m not weird!”

“I found you sleeping on a park bench, that’s not exactly-” Keith cuts himself off, “Is this your door? The red one with the silver trim?”

“Yeah,” Lance says and he’s kind of sad to hear that they’re home already, “Yep. I don’t have my keys though.”

“That’s fine,” Keith mumbles, and then he’s setting Lance down. Lance is entirely too preoccupied with trying to stay upright now that he's been unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk to see what Keith does, but when he glances up the Shadowhunter is putting something into his pocket and holding the door open. 

“I’m on the first floor,” Lance says slowly. He could probably make it to his apartment, it’s only three doors down but things are kind of wobbly and he doesn’t really… want to. He isn’t going to be the one to ask though. 

Keith nods, leaning in the doorway, “Looks clear. I’ll help you to the door.”

“You think they’d follow us here?” Lance says, trying to appear unconcerned but his heart is in his throat.

“No,” Keith shrugs, “But you can’t be too careful.”

Lance chuckles awkwardly because he doesn’t know what to say. He shuffles forward,

intending to use the wall as a support but Keith lets out a huff and slides under Lance’s arm, supporting his left side. He doesn’t lift Lance again, which is almost disappointing, but Lance is glad for the help anyway. 

They make it down the hall in awkward half steps. When they get to Lance’s door, he starts to inform the Shadowhunter that it too is locked, but Keith’s already drawing on the wood with something that resembles a thin piece of glass, the size of a pencil. 

“It’s a stele,” Keith volunteers, sensing Lance’s eyes on him, “We use them to draw runes.”

“Cool,” Lance breathes, and then he’s hobbling into his living room. Keith doesn’t follow, “Do you

wanna come in? I don’t have to like… invite you in, do I?” None of his ma’s stories had ever mentioned anything like that. She would have told him something that major, wouldn’t she?

“Uh, no I should go. Let my brother and Allura know how things went,” he says awkwardly, one hand rising to press into his midsection, “Nice to meet you though.”

“Sure, yeah, um, if you… if you want, you could chill here til your brother shows up. Not sure if you’ll have long to wait or whatever, but at least you could get a little cleaned up.” Lance feels strange even offering this because what the fuck Keith is a  _ Shadowhunter,  _ but the guy looks a little lost standing there in his doorway. 

Keith hesitates for a moment, then follows Lance the rest of the way to the living room. The apartment isn’t much, just a small outdated kitchen to the left, two tiny bedrooms with a bathroom in between to the right. They’ve got a couch and a modest size TV on an entertainment system Lance pulled from the dumpster last fall. His mother had helped buy the couch, but that was about all she could afford with his three other siblings also struggling to find their way in the world. 

“This is nice,” Keith murmurs, glancing around himself, “You live here alone?”

“Uh…” Lance wracks his brain, trying to decide if it’s a good idea to let him know Hunk exists. He decides, eventually, that it doesn’t matter since Hunk isn’t home and probably won’t be while Keith is here, “No. I’ve got a roommate. He’s at work right now.”

Keith just nods, and then says, “You need some help with that knee?”

Lance, who had been staring angrily at his couch trying to figure out how to sit on it without hurting himself or staining the fabric both, glances toward Keith with no small measure of surprise, “I… wouldn’t turn it down, no.”

“You have bandages? Stuff to clean it out? It’s not poisoned but I can tell you from experience demon’s legs aren’t exactly the most sanitary.” The way he says it makes it sound like there’s a story behind that, one Lance is dying to ask about, but he doesn’t.

Instead he nods, one hand rising toward his lips to cover his smile, “Yeah, I’ve got some stuff in my bathroom. My kit is under the sink.”

“Kit?” Keith questions, one eyebrow rising.

“I’m a Warlock,” Lance says, shrugging as if that explains everything, though he knows it doesn’t. His mother has been teaching him how to mend wounds and fix infections since he was a boy, and when he moved out, he’d taken his supplies with him. They came in handy sometimes when Hunk hurt himself during a shift or if Lance woke up with a particularly nasty hangover. 

“Right,” Keith says slowly, and then he sighs, a resigned sort of sound. He shakes his head and then, without taking off his shoes, stomps into Lance’s bathroom. 

Lance tries to remember if he’d cleaned recently, but honestly at this point he doesn’t really care. Everything aches and he kind of wishes he hadn’t asked Keith to stay. He’s realizing sleep might be the best cure for his current predicament but he sure as hell isn’t going to do that with a Shadowhunter around. 

“Is this it?” Keith asks, poking his head and hand around the doorframe, a bright blue and red tie dye bag clutched in his fingers. 

“It is indeed,” Lance grumbles, and then he gives up on trying to be careful, sitting in one quick motion. His jeans pull at the wound and he bites back a gasp, but at least he isn’t standing anymore. Keith hands over his potions bag and Lance grimaces, opening it with practiced fingers. He pulls the scissors free from the side pocket, cutting fabric away from around the wound, revealing it in its entirety. 

It’s not as bad as he’d thought. It’s deep, but not wide and it seems like it’s stopped bleeding already. Keith is peering at it from his perch just beyond the edge of the couch and Lance squints up at him, “Could you get me some wet towels from the kitchen?”

It only takes about ten minutes for the two of them to clean, disinfect and bandage the wound. Lance takes the potion for pain he’d made with his mother last time he was home, just enough to take the edge off but not to send him to sleep. By the time he’s settled back against the couch cushions, his leg elevated on a pillow, he’s content enough. 

Keith awkwardly shuffles around the room somewhere behind him and then says, “I’m going to call my brother a second.”

“Can you uh…” Lance licks his lips, then barrels onward, “Can you not tell him I live here? I don’t know if I really want Shadowhunter’s knowing my address just yet.”

Lance can’t see Keith’s expression, but he responds with a sullen, “I guess,” which is good enough for Lance. He honestly hadn’t even expected that much. 

The conversation is muted. Keith doesn’t say much, just gives an “extraction” point somewhere up the block and Lance lets himself relax a little. Just because Keith is apparently cool with Downworld doesn’t mean his brother will be. 

The phone snaps closed and Lance flinches at the sound. Stupid flip phones. Speaking of phones, he’s pretty sure his was stolen by that chick last night, along with his wallet and keys. They might have to change the locks. Lance stiffles his groan. Hunk will loan him the money but he’s certainly not going to be very happy about it. Maybe the Shadowhunters will pay him for his help with those demons.

Yeah sure. More likely than not Lance should hope the Institute never finds out what he’s done. 

Keith steps back into the living room, fiddling with his phone, “He’ll be here soon.”

“Cool. You want a change of shirt? I’ve got one I think might fit, an old one of Hunk’s because honestly you don’t look like you’d fit into mine.” annnnd he’s babbling now, but he can’t seem to stop himself, “Not because you’re like… you’re just more like… muscular.”

“I’m… more muscular?” Keith repeats, like he doesn’t quite follow. He stares down at Lance, some of his loose strands of hair brushing his cheek and Lance has the stupid urge to touch them. 

“Yes,” Lance confirms, and then he’s on his feet without really knowing how he got there. It doesn’t hurt as much as he’d been expecting, though there is a moment of lightheadedness, “You can get cleaned up in the kitchen while I grab you something else to wear.”

Keith’s brow furrows, just slightly, “I don’t think you should be standing.”

“Probably not,” Lance agrees, “But you’re not going in my room on your own, so here we are.”

“I don’t need to be-”

“Keith, you stink like those garbage monsters,” Lance interjects, exasperated, “It’s cool if you wait here, but I’d appreciate it if you at the very least sealed that shirt in a plastic bag. We could also set it on fire, but somehow I don’t think you’d be agreeable to that.”

“No, I wouldn’t be,” Keith says, but there’s no anger there, only humor, “Fine.”

He unbuckles the gear that covers his torso, swinging his sword, now in its scabbard, in a wide arc off his shoulders. Lance catches sight of a bit of his lower stomach, covered in runes just like his arms, and then he’s limping out of the living room, forcing himself  _ away, away, away,  _ because that’s not for him. His bedroom is a disaster, and upon seeing it, he’s overwhelmed with the relief that he hadn’t let Keith see this. Now where did he put that sleep shirt of Hunks?

Something begins to trickle into the back of his mind while he digs through his drawers. Here, in the quiet of his space, things start to catch up to him. All of this because of one wild Friday night. He’d just wanted to cut loose a little, flirt with someone, maybe take them home, and instead he’d been seduced by a woman who stole all his shit, woke up in a park, nearly got murdered by some demons and now there’s a Shadowhunter in his home. 

He collapses backward onto his bed with a huff. He’s exhausted. He’s not in danger anymore, either from blood loss or from demons and now that the adrenaline’s faded he really wants to curl up in his blankets and not emerge until Hunk gets home and coaxes him free with some freshly baked cookies. Keith is hot, sure, but Lance needs to get his shit together. Hot people are dangerous, a lesson being hammered home by his lack of a cell phone. 

He just has to get through the next half hour, maybe less. Keith had said his brother would be there soon, and then Lance can wallow in his misery. 

He doesn’t find Hunk’s old shirt, but he does find one that he’d gotten from a concert two years ago when they were sold out of his size. He snags that, changes out of his utterly ruined jeans and wanders back into the main area. Keith is still in the kitchen. Lance can see him through the gap in the counter and the cabinets above him, and he doesn’t really mean to watch, but he kind of can’t help it. Keith’s wiping at his hip with paper towels, and his hair is tied back again, neater this time. When he turns to throw the towels in the trash, Lance catches a flash of dark red. It takes him a second to think about why that’s significant, why that matters. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Lance hears himself ask, and Keith starts, spinning toward the sound of Lance’s voice. 

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re bleeding,” Lance frowns. Now that Keith’s facing him, he notices the crescent shaped puncture marks just above Keith’s hip bone. They’re red and irritated, but not bleeding, hopefully a good sign. 

“Got bit by a Dravak,” Keith holds out his hand and Lance blinks at it before remembering that he’s holding a shirt for him. He hands it over, and the Shadowhunter pulls it on, shrugging it around his shoulders. Lance wishes he’d had a bit more of a chance to examine the runes inked across the man’s skin, but he has a feeling that question won’t be received positively, not now, “Shouldn’t be an issue.”

“They’re poisonous!” Lance retorts and Keith smiles, for whatever reason. 

“It won’t kill me. And Shiro will be here before it sets in.”

“Still! I think I have something to treat Drevak bites, if you want,” Lance offers, but he can tell before he even asks that the answer is going to be no. 

Keith’s posture shifts into something defensive, something a bit more on edge, “The Silent Brothers will take care of it. It’s fine.”

“Silent Brothers?” 

“Our healers,” Keith answers shortly, and then he brushes past Lance back toward the couch. 

Lance watches him go. The Shadowhunter’s shoulders are tense, standoffish. Lance can’t figure out for the life of him what’s changed in the few minutes they’ve been apart, but clearly something’s off. He can’t put his finger on what, exactly, and isn’t sure he wants to put the effort into figuring it out. 

Keith settles on the arm rest of the couch, facing the door. His arms are crossed over his chest. There’s a bag by the door, placed carefully next to Keith’s sword. His clothes and gear, Lance guesses. 

“Do you want-” he starts, wondering if Keith’s thirsty, but Keith cuts him off. 

“Lance, just sit. Relax. I appreciate all your help but everything’s fine.” His words are kind enough, but his tone is kind of curt. Not annoyed, exactly, but tired. 

“Sure.”

Lance makes it back to the couch. The air feels tense. He swings his leg back up onto it’s cushion and wonders if Keith would totally freak out if Lance performs a healing spell. It’ll reduce his recovery time in half, but he supposes it can wait. He’s comfortable, which is more than he can say for the Shadowhunter perched next to him. The man’s sitting rigidly, his hands clutched loosely around his phone. 

“You mind if I watch T.V.?” Lance asks, more to interrupt the silence than anything, “Do Shadowhunters even watch T.V.?”

“Yeah man, we have a T.V.,” Keith says, “We just don’t tend to laze around much.”

Well, the biting sarcasm is better than nothing Lance supposes. He can feel Keith watching him as he clicks on the news, setting the volume low. When he hazards a glance in Keith’s direction, the other man is staring resolutely at the screen, but he’s kind of pale. Kind of sweaty. It’s not a reassuring sight, that’s for sure, but Lance reminds himself it’s not his place. He has little experience with demons, and none at all with Shadowhunters. 

Lance isn’t really sure how much time has passed, twenty minutes maybe, in a less than comfortable quiet, until Keith breaks it this time. 

“Hey,” he says, and there’s something about the way he talks that makes Lance think he’s trying to keep his voice steady, “Don’t mean to interrupt, but could I grab some water?”

“Yeah sure. Glasses are in the cupboard to the right of the sink,” Lance gestures to the kitchen behind him. There’s something in the news about Central Park, something about an escaped rabid dog and Lance wonders if it has anything to do with a mundane spotting one of the demons earlier. 

He shifts, orienting himself toward the kitchen to ask Keith about the Mundanes he’d helped in the park, but the loud  _ crash  _ of broken glass interrupts his train of thought, “Keith?”

He’s standing again just in time to see the Shadowhunter crumple. 

“Keith!” he says again, with more alarm, “Jesus, what-”

He moves as quickly as he’s able, hopping toward the shuddering form of Keith on the floor. He’s limp, unconscious, probably. Lance kneels next to him, bewildered as to what, exactly, happened, but before he can try to find out, Keith’s gasping, pushing himself upward. He doesn’t quite make it, one hand sliding across his torso to settle on his hip. He’s still shaking, his eyes unfocused. He blinks rapidly and then settles his gaze upon Lance, his expression twisted and confused, “Why am I on the floor?”

“You fell dude,” Lance says, somewhat hysterically, “What’s going on?”

Keith doesn’t answer. He just tries to shove himself to his feet, breathing ragged and uneven. He grabs hold of the fridge handle and pulls, ignoring Lance when he tries to help. His runes ripple and shift across his skin as he moves, struggling upright with more effort than Lance thinks this should take. 

They make it back to the couch. Keith’s face is white, his eyes half lidded, bottom lip permanently trapped between his teeth by the time they get there, but they’re both in one piece and that’s about as good as Lance could have hoped for. 

“Is it the bite?” Lance asks. Drevak teeth, when left in the skin, can be extremely painful. Maybe Keith missed one?

Keith doesn’t answer. He’s looking around the room with a sort of absent glint to his eye, like he’s seeing everything and nothing at the same time. He doesn’t seem to hear Lance’s question the first time, nor the second, third or fourth. 

Lance lifts Keith’s shirt, carefully, gingerly, to reveal the wound. It’s bright red now, an angry color, with bits of black worming outward from the teeth marks. He can’t see any fangs, nothing left in the skin, and it’s with that final piece the puzzle comes together. 

“This isn’t a Drevak bite is it?”

That, for some reason, gets Keith’s attention. He lifts his head slightly, bits of dark hair stuck to his damp brow, “Don’t think so.”

So that means this came from the Shax demon. A bite that is significantly more dangerous than the Drevak. Lance’s stomach drops to his toes. He knows how to treat this, loosely, but it’s a matter of if Keith will let him. And if his Mama answers her phone. 

“Okay. Okay, this is alright, uh, you should take something for the pain, I’ve got…” he digs around in his bag, coming up with aspirin and a painkilling draught of his own creation, “These. Take your pick.”

Of course, Keith chooses the asprin, downing six of them in a single go, with no water. It’s kind of alarming to watch, if Lance is being honest, but the corner of Keith’s mouth quirks up a little when he sees Lance looking at him, “It’s fine. I’m fine. Shiro will be here soon and I’ll be out of your hair. Didn’t mean to…”

He motions vaguely in the air and Lance gives him a questioning stare, “Pass out?”

“Mhmm,” he says. He’s on his side, breathing a little easier now. Lance doesn’t know how to respond to that. He has to call his Ma. He knows how to treat the infection, but he doesn’t know how to remove the traces of demonic presence. She will though. 

“Can I use your phone?” Lance asks, and Keith nods, his eyes closed. Lance scoops it up, moves to his bedroom and dials the number he knows by heart. 

_ “Hello?” _ She answers almost immediately and Lance kind of wants to cry at the sound of her voice. 

“Mama, it’s Lance,” he says in a rush, “I need some help.”

_ “Are you okay?” _

“I’m fine, I’m okay, but I need to know what to add to the antibiotic ointment for a Shax demon bite.”

_ “Is it Hunk? Mijo, I told you to stay away from demons-” _

“It’s not Hunk, it’s a uh… stranger, and I know, I tried, I did, but this is really important, please!”

She must hear the panic there, the panic that Lance feels is so obvious it might as well be bleeding from his pores because she tells him. He has some of the things he’ll need, but not everything. He’ll go pick things up if it comes to that, but if there’s a God, Keith’s brother will show up before it’s necessary. 

He can treat the symptoms for now, and hope that the Silent Brothers or whatever take care of the rest. 

When he leaves the sanctuary of his space, he finds Keith is asleep. He’s sprawled across the couch, a couch that’s just a bit too short for him, his feet hanging off the end. 

“Keith?” He whispers, just to be safe, but the man doesn’t stir. Okay. Good. This Lance can deal with. Let the guy sleep it off for a while. 

Lance settles on the floor next to the couch and flicks on his show, a detective series he’s been really into lately, so into in fact he might not have even notice Keith surfacing to the land of the living if it weren’t for the hand that smacks him in the back of the head. 

“Hey!” he protests, but Keith’s eyes are still closed. He’s shifting on the cushions, his brow furrowed, and he’s whispering something. It’s not in English, that’s for sure, but it’s also not a language Lance knows. Lance reaches up to smooth a bit of his hair away from his forehead, something he used to do with his younger siblings and he’s not surprised to find that the Shadowhunter has a raging fever. 

“Keith,” Lance says, and then louder, “Keith!”

The guy wakes with a start, one hand going to where Lance assumes he normally keeps his knives, but the motion stops halfway there and Keith grunts, falling back. His lips are pressed tightly together, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. Every muscle is tense, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he finally finds Lance’s face. 

“What?” He croaks. 

“I think you should take some antibiotics,” Lance says, putting a bit of firmness into his tone. 

“No,” Keith whispers. His eyes drift shut again, “I’m okay.”

“No you’re not,” Lance insists, “You’ve got a fever.”

Not to mention at some point the bite had begun to ooze something yellow and nasty. Where is Keith’s brother? 

Lance remembers, then, that Keith had told his brother a spot up the block. Which means the brother might have been there and left already. Lance goes cold. He should call him, Keith's brother, but if he does it means more Shadowhunters. Shadowhunters that will be in his  _ home.  _

“‘M fine,” Keith mumbles again, and then he says, quiet enough that Lance almost doesn’t catch it, “Is Shiro here?”

“Shiro’s your brother?”

Keith doesn’t answer, but Lance knows he has to be. Keith’s cell phone sits on the floor next to Lance,

taunting him. He needs to do this. His potions and healing magic are helpful for warlocks and weres, other downworlders, but he’s never treated a Shadowhunter before. What if it doesn’t work?

In the time that Lance deliberates, Keith seems to become more and more agitated behind him. He’s shifting, moving, restless, and then there’s a sound that feels like it was involuntarily torn from the back of Keith’s throat.  _ He’s in pain, _ Lance has time to think before Keith’s back arches and he lets out a wheezing breath,  _ A lot of pain.  _

Alright. Enough deliberation. 

“Look, Keith, I’m going to call your brother again,” Lance reassures him, “But I really don’t think that aspirin is helping at all.”

“I-,” Keith starts to say but he can’t seem to get anything else out. He’s practically gasping for air, veins visible on his arms, his neck. 

“If you don’t take it, I will pour it down your throat.”

Keith grimaces at that and then finally gives in. Thankfully, Lance has everything at the ready. He intends to hand Keith a cup and let him drink the brew himself, but the Shadowhunter’s hands are shaking so badly he spills more than he swallows. Lance takes over, first with the painkiller and then with some homemade antibiotics, and Keith doesn’t protest anymore. He’s quiet, but Lance thinks it has more to do with him being nearly unconscious than actually trusting Lance to help him. 

He falls back against the pillows, and almost instantly the muscles in his shoulders relax. He kind of hums, which is a bit shocking to Lance, but then he says, “That’s...really good.”

“What is?”

“That stuff,” Keith sighs.

“Should have let me give it to you earlier.”

“Yeah,” Keith admits, his head lolling in Lance’s direction, “Shoulda.”

“I’m going to call your brother now,” Lance lets him know and Keith gives him a loose thumbs up. 

“Lance,” he says, a little forcefully and Lance pauses in scrolling down the “recent calls” list. There’s two there, incoming calls from Shiro that were missed, “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Lance is a little surprised to find it means it. He likes this guy, against his better judgement. He’s a little prickly and he’s a Shadowhunter, but he’s been kinder to Lance in the last two hours than most strangers would have been. His newly found caution toward those of the attractive variety has already worn down, destroyed by Keith’s obvious need for more assistance than Lance can give. 

Lance hits the redial button and it rings once, twice and then someone picks up,  _ “Keith?” _

“It’s uh… Okay, so I’m with Keith, obviously I’m not him-” Lance babbles and the male voice cuts in sharply. 

_ “What’s wrong with him?” _

“He was bitten by a Shax demon.”

There’s a lot of cursing then, several  _ by the angel’s,  _ and other things Lance doesn’t really understand. There’s a muffled shout of,  _ “Allura, get the car,”  _ before Shiro’s back,  _ “Where are you? Is he okay?” _

“I gave him something for the pain. And antibiotics for the infection.” He gives Shiro his address, though it's physically painful to do so. 

“ _ We’ll be there in ten minutes.” _

The line goes dead and Lance lets the phone drop with numb fingers. This is his worst nightmare. Shadowhunters in his home. 

“Thank you,” Keith says again, softer, with just a hint of a slur, which isn’t surprising considering how quickly Lance’s pain relieving spells tend to work and how much Lance had given him, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah I did,” Lance huffs, a little angrily, “Can’t just let you die.”

“You could,” Keith tells him with certainty. 

“I wouldn’t,” he says, shocked, and hurt, almost. 

“You’re too nice to be this pretty,” Keith mumbles and Lance lets out a surprised snort. 

“What?”

“I don’t know,” the Shadowhunter shrugs, a motion made awkward by his prone position, “Ignore me.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Lance laughs and it’s odd because it’s real, “Go on, keep telling me I’m pretty.”

“No,” Keith shakes his head, and then seems to regret doing so, one hand lifting to his brow, “I take it back, maybe you’re not nice.”

“I saved your life this morning!”

“I saved yours first,” Keith counters. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Lance rolls his eyes and Keith grins, this obnoxiously cute, sleepy, lopsided grin, “Why don’t you just pass out again, huh?”

“Maybe I will,” the man mumbles. 

He’s out before Lance can think of a reply. That warm feeling is back in Lance’s chest again.

Exactly 7 minutes later, someone’s bursting in the door and Lance is readying a shield only to realize that based on the runes spiraling up this man’s neck, he must be another Shadowhunter, “Shiro?”

The older Shadowhunter, probably in his late twenties, takes one look at Keith and says in a dangerous voice, “What did you do to him?”

“I  _ was  _ sleeping,” Keith says, irritated, “Don’t yell at Lance. He’s nice.”

“He’s-” Shiro says and some of the color returns to his face, “Uh.”

“Hi,” Lance waves from the floor, “I’m Lance.”

A woman trots in after Shiro, her long nearly white hair flowing past her waist. She too has those black marks up her arms and she looks deadly serious, far too stern for someone that young, “How is he?”

“Okay, for now,” Shiro mutters darkly. He starts to move into the living room and then says stiffly, “I’m sorry to barge in on you Lance. We’ll make sure he gets properly treated.”

“I know,” Lance says, “That’s why I called.”

The woman flashes him a quick, worried smile, and then she’s moving around Lance, helping Keith to sit up, “How long will what you gave him last?”

“Another four hours, tops.”

“Thank you,” she says warmly, and her words are much more genuine than Shiro’s were, “for helping him.”

“Of course.”

“Keith,” Shiro leans over the side of the couch, trying to catch his brother’s attention, “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Keith affirms. 

The woman helps him upright, but it soon becomes clear that Keith isn’t being exactly truthful. He leans heavily on his fellow Shadowhunter, his expression twisted and it’s only a matter of seconds before Shiro sweeps his legs out from under him. Keith mumbles some kind of protest, his arm hanging limply outside of his brother’s grip, but no one takes him seriously, least of all his family. 

“Uh,” Lance says awkwardly, “Here’s his phone.”

The woman takes it, a smile on her pink lips, “Thank you again. He’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, cool,” Lance tries to seem like he couldn’t care one way or the other, but his voice breaks, giving him away. 

She gives him a knowing look and then says quietly, so that her companions can’t hear , “You know… why don’t you keep that phone? Just in case we need to know more about what you gave him.”

“Sure, yeah okay.”

Smooth Lance. Really smooth. 

She nods once, then turns, helping Shiro out the door. Keith seems to be complaining about something, but Lance can’t quite make out what before the door is shut and he’s left alone in his apartment with only a stupid flip phone he isn’t even sure he wants. 

He spends the next two days as usual. The phone doesn’t ring and Lance doesn’t mind because that means everything went just fine. Or that it went horribly wrong, but Lance isn’t going to think about that. He just focuses on getting himself a  _ real  _ phone, one with a touch screen.

It’s on day three (Lance isn’t counting, not at all) that it finally goes off, a soft buzzing that Lance picks up immediately, much as he tries to restrain himself, “Hello?”

_ “Lance?”  _

“Hey Keith.”


End file.
